When trying to envision what I might be in for, my brain brought up memories of my high school art shows: strange, technicolor paintings of nudes, wire sculptures of monsters with bananas for claws, ugly pottery fresh out the kiln. It was fun then, so I thought the Japanese version would be just as weird.
It was. Just in a different way.
Culture festival day. I sat on my knees on the gymnasium floor, scrunched up with approximately 200 other parents and their children, behind the teachers and students in uniform. There were no chairs, because I live in Japan. It reminded me of an indoor picnic mixed with a school assembly.
The main event consisted of watching my students perform speeches and sing songs, while a group of judges decided which of the classes was the most cultured. A difficult decision, considering that they were all junior high students.
Judging twelve year old students on how cultured they are is like judging white bread on how spicy and bold its flavor is. It's just not practical.
But I digress. I hunkered down on the floor next to Inamura Sensei, a teacher I had worked with last year who had gone on maternity leave. She displayed her tiny, chubby, drooling baby for me, and I had about twenty minutes of pure joy when I would pinch her chubby cheeks and she would reciprocate with chubby smiles. The baby, not the teacher.
So far, culture festival seems pretty fun, right? Babies, indoor picnicking, spicy, bold flavors. It's everything I want out of a Sunday.
But then the singing starts.
The first graders (seventh graders in the U.S.) in class one come to the stage. The piano begins to play a jaunty tune. The kids begin to sing a lovely song about walking through the mountains on a summer day.
"Okay," I think to myself. "This is a fun little show. I can get into this. I'll have some nice traditional Japanese songs to hum throughout the day. I already feel more cultured."
The song finishes. The students leave the stage. The parents and I clap and nod approvingly to one another.
The first graders in class two now come to the stage. The piano begins to play the same jaunty tune, and the students once again begin to sing the same song about the mountains and the summer day.
"Hmm..." I think to myself. "I guess that first performance was like a practice round, and now they're performing the song for real. Excellent, okay, yeah."
The song finishes. The students leave the stage again. The parents and I clap and nod approvingly to one another once again. We are in this together after all.
Class three. Jaunty tune. Mountains and summer day.
"Oh my god," I think. "Oh. My. God. They are going to sing the same song all damn day. Well, this is just first graders, right? Maybe we'll get a different song from the second graders. I guess I can listen to this five times without wanting to hit someone."
Cut to third graders, class five. Jaunty tune. Those awful mountains and that stupid summer day.
I have counted. This song has been repeated fifteen times so far.
By this time, I have stopped thinking. The words in my brain have been replaced with Japanese song lyrics. I don't even understand most of them and yet they are there, repeating.
I have forgotten my past. I have forgotten my hopes and dreams. I am a robot, programmed to walk among the mountains and enjoy summer days.
When I finally leave the festival, and my soul returns to my body, I like to think that I feel a little more cultured than when I walked in.
But really I probably just have a new appreciation for mountains and summer days. Too bad it's fall now.
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